


Metronomic Obesssions

by Cogsbreak



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Mental Illness, Multi, OCD, OT3, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, POV Second Person, Polyamory, Romance, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:52:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9348053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cogsbreak/pseuds/Cogsbreak
Summary: Rocket Raccoon has two problems; unfortunately, both of them are in his head and can't be shot easily.He keeps having these intrusive thoughts that won't go away, that constantly tell him the horrible things that will happen if he doesn't placate them.The second is his horrible crush on Peter Quill, Star-Lord.Some days a blaster to the face seems like the best option.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [If I](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2184381) by [Psilent (HereThereBeFic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereThereBeFic/pseuds/Psilent). 



You toss yourself into the bed that you jury-rigged out of some parts that were still lying around and stare up at the ceiling of the _Milano_. You're not tired yet, but it's been another long day, and you're just glad it's over. Your fingers flex (twitch, really) and you try not to groan because you can't close your eyes yet because you have to strip your guns and reassemble them just to be _sure_ because if you don't then the next time you pull the trigger it'll explode and take everyone with it.

Your guns have numerous safeguards in them to prevent just that. You know it, you built them in, even on the hodge-podge ones you throw together because you can because you _have_ to because you can't sit still and do **nothing** you have to do _something_ or else the ship's life support will stop filtering out the carbon dioxide and it doesn't _matter_ that Groot is right there and can and has done just that (except now he's a little sapling in a pot and he's growing fast but he's not his old self yet and won't be for a while), you _have_ to disassemble and reassemble them before you sleep.

If you fumble one of the parts, the airlock will malfunction and vent the atmosphere when everyone's asleep, and you'll have to strip the gun down and reassemble it twice to make up for it.

So you roll yourself off the bunk and sit down at the little stool and counter Quill helped you set up – and you only threatened to shoot him once which was sixteen times fewer than you would if it had been anyone outside the _Milano_ 's crew – and start the familiar routine that you wish _wasn't_ familiar, but you have to do it because there's something wrong in your head, and you can feel it metaphorically banging around and knocking into other things and pushing them out of position, and try not to think.

You try not to think about how annoying Quill is, or how glad you are to have Groot back, or how Drax went out of his way to comfort you, or how Gamora went through almost the same thing you did (but how come _she –_ and you squash _that_ thought right there), and how all of you are crammed aboard a ship that's just big enough for you now but won't be when Groot is regrown, and how every one of you has complained about it, but the merest hint of getting a different ship is shouted down by everyone else.

You try not to think about your old ship, impounded somewhere (except your record's been expunged so it's just sitting for you to pick it up) and how it was _yours_ , how it had plenty of space even with Groot, and you wish you could have that now but at the same time you don't want to leave.

You try not to think how easy it would be to “accidentally” arm one of your microfusion bombs and blow everyone to stardust.

You try not to think about how you got smashed and nearly got everyone else killed because you got _Drax_ hammered off his ass and he decided calling Ronan was the best thing he could ever do.

You try not to think about how when Quill was persuading you to calm the fuck down he crouched so he'd be at your level as he talked. You wanted to claw his face off for being so d'asted condescending at the time (but now you appreciate that he was _trying to help_ and condescension had never entered his head), and you try not to think about what came after that.

You try not to think about how he came up with the brilliant and insane suggestion to just _ram_ the necrocraft.

You try not to think about how he decided he was going to throw himself to the band of Ravagers that had been after his head because it was the only way to save Gamora.

You try not to think how one twitch of the trigger and you could blow one of the main fuses and overload the drives and kill everyone on the ship.

You try not to think about how much you wanted Quill to do the same thing for you (and how you still do) and how much you didn't want to leave him behind (but you had to if you were going to save him).

The gun clicks together in your hands and you let out a quiet sigh since you didn't botch anything this time, and you set it aside to work on the other one.

Your fingers dance along the various plugs, pins, and sockets, and your weapon goes to pieces – simple, easy, and the opposite of how the inside of your head feels. Your eyes flick sightlessly over the components as you wipe down every side with a clean rag, then place each one five centimeters away from the others. If they're any closer the cockpit's window will shatter. If they're any farther apart, the controls will stop working and send the _Milano_ diving into a sun.

Every breath you take rasps in your throat and makes your hands tremble slightly. You can't _not_ think about how you tried to do the big, dramatic rescue (look at me, Star-Lord, look at me!) and how the fact that Quill somehow managed to sweet-talk his way outta that situation had left you flatfooted and fumbling to pretend everything was cool, you had _everything_ under control, nothing was wrong at all...

You can't remember when you went from constantly being annoyed by his presence to constantly being annoyed that he wasn't present.

Even that stupid stunt of yours when you crashed into the bridge of the Dark Aster because _fuck it_ , nothing else had worked and your friends (Quill and Groot and yes, Gamora and Drax) needed you to do _something_.

You managed to cobble together the Hadron Enforcer into something that managed to work after it somehow survived Ronan's ship hitting the ground (and how the crash had also nearly killed Groot, and if it hadn't been for that suicidal, revenge-driven charge of yours – and it _was_ suicidal then – the gun would never have been reassembled).

You're still not sure if Drax had been aiming for the hammer or not, but you had felt your heart stop in your chest when Quill made a dive for the Infinity Gem and had caught it in his bare hand (no, you had thought. Not like that).

You'd felt ice crawl up your spine when Gamora had put her hand in his (and she was the brave one, the one who made the first move) and something leaden had solidified in your stomach when Drax had placed his hand on Quill's shoulder.

You hadn't cared then (and you do now but only because you're still alive); all that mattered was Groot was dead, Quill was about to be, and fuck it, if everything was going to be wiped out you might as well be part of the first wave (but you still weren't brave enough to touch Quill).

You hadn't expected to live (and much _much_ later you'll wonder if it was **because** you all were willing to die together that the five of you held it together long enough to kill Ronan). You're still a little surprised you did, but it's a dull, weary surprise, an “oh, yeah, that happened”, not a whoop of joy that the ground you'd stood on wasn't charred, dead rock.

You hadn't wanted to live, and now you were, and now Quill and Gamora were leading up to knocking boots together, and your stomach is _twisting_ because _why couldn't it be_ _ **you**_.

A gasp forces its way out of your throat, and the surprise of it is enough to make you drop the receiver and send it clinking into the magazine and power pack, and you have to fumble to pick them back up and start all over again, cleaning and spacing them, and you'll have to do it twice more so the ship doesn't plow into a stardock when trying to make a landing.

Your name is Rocket, and there is so much wrong in your head you don't know where to start.

 

*****

 

Your name is Rocket, and you can't take much more of this. There's a pile of wires and parts in front of you, and the only reason you're even messing with them is because that _feeling_ in your head is making you.

_If you don't make a bomb capable of atomizing a city block, Quill will ditch you on the next planet._

Both of your hands press into your eyes and you scrub furiously, trying to keep your cool. It's okay, it's okay, you got this. A deep breath. Hold it. Let it out. Take another. Ignore how lately every impulse you _have_ to do ends with “or Quill will abandon you”.

It doesn't help that you _know_ what's causing it, and you clutch at your forehead and stifle a groan because you _can't_ ignore that Gamora and Quill are definitely a Thing now (and it's no surprise to anyone, even if you wish otherwise).

Every so often you dart a glance to their door and try to swallow the bile in your throat. There's no one in there at the moment; Star-Dork is busy flying the _Milano_ , and Gamora's doing some form of stretching routine in what had become the rather cramped gym. Even so, you can't help yourself; there's always that quiet gnawing in your stomach.

If you line up every one of your scavenged wires in order of length, color, and composition, maybe he'll love you (except he'll never love you, he's a humie and you're a... whatever you are, and you're so different you're not even sure if you're physically _compatible_ ).

A faint noise catches your attention, and you sit up straight and pretend everything's fine, and you hide your relief that it's just Drax, polishing his knives and starting up Quill's godforsaken taste in music to give Groot something to dance to as he grows (and you're grateful that he remembered to do it, and guilty that you forgot because Groot's been your friend for what feels like forever and if you were being honest you'd admit the music's not that bad, it's just that it's another reminder of Quill).

You lower your head and get back to work on your latest project that will stop every one of your friends dying horribly in a thousand ways that would never happen (but that horrible little thought in the back of your head says it _might_ so you do it anyway because worse than the urges is that they could be _right_ ).

So you sit at the table during meals and smile and pretend everything is fine and you chat like nothing's gone wrong when someone talks to you, and you ignore the frowns Groot sends your way because he's a plant, what does he know?

(He knows, and you know, but it's just easier if you lie to yourself about how he doesn't.)

It's gotten to the point where you don't even want to look at Gamora because unlike you, her cyborg components fit seamlessly under her skin, and where they poke through it looks like fanciful, expensive jewelry, and every time you do it makes you painfully aware of how _your_ haphazard cybernetics protrude through knots of scar tissue and furless skin.

It makes you want to hate her because you know it makes her look more beautiful to humies and probably especially Quill, but after everything you just can't do that, so you hate yourself instead. Because you're short and scarred and disfigured, on top of being whatever the hell you are, and for the first time you're feeling like there's more from someone than how entertaining they are if you screw with them, and you _can't do a fucking thing about it_ except sit there and take it because as much as it hurts to know you'll never have what you want, just the _thought_ of leaving and _not_ knowing that everyone (yes everyone, Drax, Gamora, Quill... everyone) is okay hurts even more.

So you sit and stew in your own head, and you disassemble the grenades and reassemble them over and over, even though there's nothing in your head making you do it **this** time because you have to do _something_ , anything, and it helps you avoid Quill and Gamora, and you try to ignore Groot scowl at you.

And it works, so you keep it up, even though you can tell everyone's getting a little worried about you (except Groot, he was worried from the beginning).

And then, of course, it all falls apart (but it was coming anyway, and nothing could have stopped it) when Quill and Drax are off on some frozen, forsaken hellhole of a planet doing a simple retrieval job for some dumb fuck who wasn't bright enough to put a d'asted _transponder_ on his “valuable cargo”, and it's just you, Groot, and Gamora keeping the ship warm.

It's the safest job you've had in weeks, and it's also boring you to tears, if you'd not been keeping yourself busy building guns, disassembling them, rebuilding them into explosives, and disassembling them in a neverending, pointless cycle.

Then Gamora grabs the soft cloth you'd rested your gun on and pulls it and the components off your table in one fluid motion that leaves you shocked and frozen and your brain just _seizes_ up, your hands twitching and clutching at the empty air in front of you. Your body shudders as you suck in a lungful of air, everything fading away as that horrible _**feeling**_ clenches down around you and you can't _speak_ , just croak out shattered fragments of words as everything comes crashing down around your head because it's all _wrong_ it's _**wrong wrong wrong Quill is going to DIE you're going to DIE everyone is going to DIE because your GUNS ARE ON THE FLOOR the planet will crack and you'll all fall into it and fuck you're all fucked there's nothing you can –**_

You don't realize you're crying until Gamora is dabbing at your face with a tissue, and then you realize you're not _crying_ , you're sobbing and shuddering like one of those pathetic humie kids after they scraped a knee, but you don't _care_ , because there's just too much for you to handle.

Your gun is back where it belongs, even if the pieces aren't just right, and you wonder how long you've been sitting there broken.

Your name is Rocket, and now everyone will know just how fucked in the head you are.

 

Your name is Rocket, and Gamora hasn't said anything to you as you fumble and try to put everything where it _has_ to be with fingers that aren't steady and a head that's too wound up to focus properly. You figure she's the one who put everything back as best she could because you only remember the position you had your hands in when everything went _**wrong**_ (and you force your thoughts away from investigating the memories too closely just in case it comes back) and between the skip from _then_ and _now_ , from when she shattered your cool to when you can remember things, nothing changed, so you know _you_ didn't move.

Gamora hasn't _said_ anything, but she sat next to you and simply waited, watching your hands go about their tasks, and eventually the silence built and built until you broke, and everything you'd been holding back about your _stupid fucked-up excuse for a brain_ poured out in a black flood of self-hatred, ranting, and half-laughing, half-crying.

She doesn't say anything until you're done double, triple, quadruple, quintuple checking things, and even then, it's a relief when she does.

“You sound like you need a drink,” she states, and it _is_ a statement – there's no arguing or persuading her when she uses that voice, but you protest anyway.

“Look, you know what happened last time I got drunk,” you start, doing your best to ignore how your voice cracks slightly at the end of the sentence.

She comes back with a glass and a bottle of something clear larger than your head, and fills the glass with only three words. “Yes. I know.” She hands it to you without another word.

“Shit,” you mutter, and down the contents without hesitation. You've barely put it down before Gamora refills it and gives you a Look. “You gotta be kiddin' m – ”

She just glowers at you, and with a sigh, you give up. “Bottoms up,” you say, and drink.

This continues and continues, until the little voice in the back of your head that counts how many drinks you've taken so you won't stop on the wrong number has been completely drowned by booze.

You're utterly, completely smashed, and you don't even care any more. She asks you why you've been acting oddly, and because you're drunk off your goddamn ass you start blabbing everything _else_ you've been hiding. How you've been attracted to Star-Dork since his stupid, _stupid_ boneheaded rescue of her (and she hides a grin at the mildly insulting name), how you've been trying to keep out from under foot because he's clearly happy and you don't want to ruin it, how you're _envious_ of her for at least being attractive (and her faint smile suddenly vanishes), and how you just can't... can't _take_ it, having to sit and watch him and her have something between them, something that's so close you can almost touch it, but have it out of reach. How _she's_ lovely (you guess, humanocentric notions of beauty aren't really your area of expertise), how her implants look sculpted and designed, like they're _supposed_ to be a part of her, while yours...

Yours just make you even more of a little freak. She doesn't say anything, and you take advantage of the silence to chug another mouthful of alcohol.

“The worst part,” you say, slurring your words, “is that there's _nothin'_ for me to begin with. Ain't nothin' like me but me, and it _fuckin' sucks ass_.”

You blearily look up at Gamora, thoughts hazed, and you blink a few times before you topple forward onto your rebuilt gun and snore.

 

*****

 

The worst part about getting black-out drunk, you think, is that you can't complain about an agonizing headache the next day. The damn cybernetics filter out the worst effects of the hangover – and if you're gonna get that blitzed, you sort of want to feel miserable the next day.

Add that to the pile of things they took away from you.

You stagger up to the cockpit, nod at everyone there, and miss how Quill looks at you. “How long till we're done with the delivery for that idiot who doesn't even have the slightest idea how to keep track of his stuff? Hey, I got an idea, we found it, so it's _salvage_. Bet I know someone who'll take it for twice what that guy offered.”

“Rocket,” Quill starts, that weary tone in his voice. You hide a grin; sometimes pulling his leg's way too much fun.

“All right, all right, fine. But if the guy has a robotic hand...” you trail off. If it means Quill's paying attention to you, you'll take any excuse you can get (he didn't think it was funny the first two times maybe he will the third).

You try not to pay attention to what part of you is thinking.

“Rocket, _no_.”

“None of you are any fun.” A quick glance at the clock, and you realize that it's much later than you thought. “I was out cold almost all day?”

“You seemed to be quite warm,” Drax pipes up, and you roll your eyes. “I would think with that fur, you would have no trouble with chills.”

You can't help but massage your forehead after that one. “It's a _figure of speech_ , we've been _over_ this.”

Quill butts in, as usual, his voice full of cheer that, to his credit, only sounds a little forced this time. “Yes, you were asleep for quite a while. Gamora told me –”

_Shit._

“– That you were feeling a bit under the weather.”

“Yeah. A bit,” you reply, numbly.

You just sit there while Quill leans over and lightly punches your shoulder. “Aaaah, you'll be fine – you're one of the toughest S.O.B.s I've ever met.”

Part of you notes that he _aaargh he still won't swear he is such a DORK_ but most of you is internally freaking out over what Gamora could have said. Your fingers twitch. You can't _not_ do something. “Look, I gotta check something...” you announce as you slide out of the seat and head back to your guns (take it apart put it back he knows _he knows_ it's all gone bad) in the hope that just _maybe_ if you do everything just right there won't be any consequences.

Because of that, you miss Drax and Quill share a concerned look as you exit the cockpit. A moment later, Quill follows you out, but you're too engrossed in trying to sort out what to do that you don't pay any attention to him aside from the instinctive tracking of everyone around you that you always do.

It therefore takes you completely by surprise when he _picks you up_ and slings you over his shoulder to _carry you_. The only thing stopping you from ripping his face off with your teeth is the fact that it's _Quill_ and that you're still in shock from the sheer _size_ of the man's solid neutronium balls that you don't react until the door to his and Gamora's cabin shuts behind you.

“Quill! What the hell, put me down!” You start to struggle, kicking at his chest and beating on his back, both of which he ignores as though you haven't done a thing to him. You seriously consider biting him, at least as a warning, but by then it's too late; he's dropped down onto the bed next to Gamora and put you down as well.

“So, what's this about having a crush on me?” he starts, and you _feel_ all the blood drain out of your face.

“You didn't,” you begin, turning to face Gamora with an accusing stare. All she does is give you a cool look back. “You did. _Fuck_ , just...” you grab at your face and drag your fingers down it. “ _Fuck_! Can I have _any_ privacy here?!”

Quill and Gamora look at each other, and you hunch over, curling into yourself.

“If it helps, I've already seen the scars?” Quill offers in a soft voice.

“What.”

He grins a little weakly, looking a bit more animated as he shrugs and _keeps talking_. “Welllll, you know, in the Kyln, when they gave us the prison uniforms? Yeah, I kinda saw your back then...”

You freeze up. Not exactly that he saw you – though you guess you're a little flattered that he was looking – but more that he saw your scars and _he knows_. You blabbed about being taken apart and put back together, and despite _acting_ adorably dumb he _is_ smarter than he looks. Not that it'd take much...

“And I dunno, I think they suit you? Kinda?” He stumbles over his words, suddenly realizing that might _not_ be the right thing to say to you. You're still in too much shock at the meaning behind them to take offense at the actual phrasing, but you do file it away back in your head for the next time you need to get into a raging shouting match at him.

“What,” you repeat. It's not the most brilliant of dialogue, but it'll do.

He gives you that maddening half-grin and leans against Gamora. “Well, okay, look at her. She's supposed to be pretty, you know? Make anyone of that inclination stop and stare, or at least too distracted to really try to fight her.” She nods agreement and smiles faintly at the flattery. “You on the other hand... You're this rough, tough little scrapper.” He leans over and ruffles the top of your head, and this time you snarl at him, half-heartedly.

It doesn't seem to faze him in the least, to your irritation, but he does at least stop petting you like some domesticated creature.

“See? You don't look pretty, but that's fine. I don't think you'd look like, well, _you_ , if you didn't have...” he fumbles again, then stops and sighs. “Look, Rocket, what I'm getting at is it's okay. I like you just fine as-is, all right?”

Gamora elbows him in the side, and he winces.

You're not sure what to say, so you don't. You've got too much swirling around in your head – too much to really think about. Quill likes you. He thinks you look fine (but he's only seen glances and glimpses). You're alone in the room with him and his love interest (so here comes the “I'm happy with her and no hard feelings” line). _Quill likes you. He thinks you look fine (but he's only seen glances and glimpses). You're alone in the room with him and his love interest (so here comes the “I'm happy with her and no hard feelings” line)._ _ **Quill likes you. He thinks you look fine (but he's only seen glances and glimpses). You're alone in the room with him and his love intere**_ _–_

Your brain is going in circles and you can't _fucking_ _ **stop it**_ all you can do is screw your eyes closed and clutch at your head as you try to stop fucking _thinking_ again but it doesn't work because it never works no matter what you do and what you try and everything comes to a screeching halt when Quill leans over and kisses the top of your head.

This does do the job of shutting down those thoughts. It also shuts down every _other_ thought you have. “Buh?”

“See?” Gamora's smirks slightly at Quill. “I told you, he would not know what to do.”

“Come on, if it'll make you feel better,” the humie said, as he starts tugging at his own shirt. “I can show you my scars.”

You unfreeze just enough to roll your eyes. “Oh yes, the collection of scars you got from sleeping around with all sorts of women you shouldn't.” Immediately after you bite your tongue and cover your face with your hands again. Everything was going better than expected, and then you had to _open your stupid mouth and ruin it again_. Like you _always do_.

Quill stops, his shirt tangled halfway around his neck, and gives you this hurt look, like you'd just kicked his beloved pet in front of him. “They're not _all_ from women...”

Gamora on the other hand just rolls her eyes and sighs, helping to untangle him. When she's done, she neatly folds the shirt and puts it on her lap.

The humie immediately ruins things by grabbing it and tossing it over to a small pile in the corner. You try not to smile at her exasperated sigh; you're all too familiar with the sort of emotions Peter Quill, Star-Lord, can stir up. “So where's the rest from? Getting your ass kicked in fights?”

“Hey, I don't do _that_ bad a job...” he says in a hurt voice.

He's pouting. He's _actually pouting_. You are head-over-heels for someone who's not even the right species and who _pouts_ when you poke fun at him.

What the _fuck_ , brain?

“I got this one from a salvage run gone bad,” he starts to prattle, and despite yourself you _do_ pay attention, because his stories are always funny, if sometimes in a way that makes you cringe, and...

 

Eventually you realize that you've been sitting and talking while shirtless (and when did your shirt come off? For that matter, when did Gamora's?) for a few hours, and that awkward tension between you, Quill, and Gamora has gone and has _been_ gone for ages. Hard on the heels of that quiet epiphany is the realization that you're tired as hell, and you're not alone in that, if the futile attempts the others are making to hide their yawns is any indication.

“It's been a hell of a day. See ya tomorrow,” you say as you stand up, feeling more than a little wistful that you're going to have to leave. Everything had surprisingly gone so _well_ ; no one had died or even come close.

Quill grabs you _again_ and pulls you back down into his lap. “Whoa, whoa, who said you were leaving?”

You stop again. Just stop. It's too much for you to handle, for you to be able to take in. You can feel his skin against your back, through the patchy fur and pressing against the hard lumps of your cybernetics and he's _not flinching away_.

 _He's lying down and pulling you with him and Gamora's doing the same and they're acting like this is_ fucking normal _and and and..._

Your fingers twitch. You have to do something. It's about to go wrong you can just _tell_ and you have to do something to stop it to fix it to _make it go away_ and without thinking your fingers start moving over Quill's arm, the one he has around you, and you stare at it with all the intensity of a precision jeweller as you start to align the hairs on his arm so every one points in the same direction.

Some movement in the corner of your eye catches your attention, and you look up in time to see Quill moving his other hand to rub at his arm and **ruin everything** but before you can do or say anything, Gamora's caught his wrist and is murmuring something quietly in his ear.

Quill looks surprised for a moment, then puts his hand down like nothing happened, leaving you to your _fucked up head and everything in it_ and for once you're thankful.

You keep fiddling with Quill's arm hair until you fall asleep mid-way and have one of the more restful nights you can remember, tucked between Gamora and Quill.

 

You're not the first to wake up. You can tell this because what _does_ wake you up is Quill's voice, coming from the shower. Loudly.

“Is that d'asted humie _singing_?” you groan as you roll over and realize that _you're in Quill and Gamora's bed_. The memories sink in as you lurch upright in surprise.

“Yes, he is. You will get used to it eventually,” the _other_ occupant of the bed tells you. “The real trick is making sure he does not drag you into it.”

You groan and cover your ears, in a futile attempt to block out Star-Dork's singing. It doesn't work, and you're forced to listen to him crooning the lyrics of some song from his home planet about being invincible or something.

You're not paying much attention, really.

“I call shower when he's done,” you announce, shaking your head.

 

You're the last one out into the common room, and Drax is smiling. No, he's _grinning_. At you. You can feel your stomach sink as he looks from you, to Quill, to Gamora. “Ah, my friends! I have been reading a dictionary, and I was wrong!”

“How...?” Gamora begins warily. You can't really feel you blame her; the tension in the room is building again, since Drax is never what you could call subtle. And for _you_ to say that...

“A whore is a woman who gets paid for sex, which means that you, Gamora, are not a whore. It _does_ mean that Quill is a slut!”

You nearly choke, and Peter _does_ , and for a few minutes the room is filled with a mixture of coughing and laughter as everyone relaxes.

“Okay, okay, so I had that one coming,” Quill gripes good-naturedly, and gives Drax a punch to his shoulder. “At least you two aren't going to try to kill each other _again_ , which is better than I feared.”

Your fingers twitch. _Going to try to kill each other_. “I'll be back in a few minutes,” you say, the horrible _feeling_ closing in around you. Despite your intentions, you pause just as you make it to the door. “Hey, Quill? My ship's impounded nearby. Can we stop there after we get paid for this job?”

“Sure,” he says, and you nod in faint relief, and miss the concerned look on everyone else's face as you go to soothe your malfunctioning mind.

 

*****

 

“All right, see you around,” you announce once you leave the _Milano_ , so focused on what you're planning to do next that you haven't realized how everyone's been on eggshells around you.

“Maybe one of us should come with you...” Drax begins, awkwardly, and you wave him off unconcerned.

“Nah, it's cool, I got this.” Those are your last words as you melt into the crowd, intent on getting to the impound lot where your ship is as quickly as you can. The others can track your path by the wake of people forced out of your way, but just as quickly the trail is gone.

 

*****

 

Your name is Peter Quill and your stomach is in knots. Rocket's gone. He's gone back to his ship, and that means that you're never seeing the little fuzzball again.

And everything had been just fine the night before, when the three of you had talked and relaxed and fell asleep together.

You want him back, but he's made his own decision, and you can't blame him for it.

The table's quiet as the three of you nurse your drinks, and you can't help but notice Drax has something alcoholic too.

 _Rocket got him to take his first drink_ , you think, and the pang of memory hurts.

All of you stare at the glasses, not wanting to be the first one to break the silence.

What does end it is the faint ping from your waist, and you pull out your tablet to check it.

“Thirty thousand unit transfer to my account from Rocket...?” you breathe, and the other two sit up suddenly, staring at you.

“He sent you money?”

You nod. “Yeah, and there's a note attached. ' _For the leg_ '.”

The two of them exchange glances, just as your computer pings again and displays another note.

“ _Where the hell are you? I can't find you!'_ ”

You read it aloud, and suddenly you find yourself laughing, laughing in relief as you send Rocket a message back, telling him your address, and you're not laughing alone – Drax and Gamora are joining in, ignoring the strange looks the other bar patrons are giving you as warmth blossoms in your chest.

_He's coming back. He didn't leave after all._

 

*****

 

Your name is Rocket, and you fall asleep every night between Gamora and Peter Quill, and every night you drift off while putting his arm in order. Your morning ritual involves showering with at least one of them, and you _adamantly_ deny singing along with Quill sometimes, despite how everyone else on the ship can hear you. You'd been embarrassed and insulted at first when you saw the small platform and ladder they'd built in the shower so you'd be higher off the ground, but Quill had finally managed to explain (through your swearing, obscene gesturing, and empty threats) that it was so you could look them closer in the eye without having to crane your neck or them look down on you. After some more grumbling (a formality, and all three of you knew it) you relented and no more was said about it.

You're not physically compatible with either one of your partners, but after some thought and experimentation, and a _lot_ of practice the three of you managed to work something out that's good enough for all of you (and sometimes that shower platform had come in _very_ handy during some soapy trysts).

Peter rearranged everything in what is becoming “your” quarters, and it still boggles your mind a little that it's a _plural_ “you”, so now there's another little space for your workshop.

There's even a small stack of boxes in the corner, something that you're sure was Quill's idea of a joke, but out of some respect to him – plus the fact that it's where you sleep – you try to keep the really volatile stuff outside the bedroom.

It's kind of _weird_ , you finally mention to Groot during one of the times you water him (everyone waters him off and on. He's getting spoiled, but no one's about to _stop_. Saving people's lives often ends up that way). He simply smiles at you and tells you “I am Groot!”

You roll your eyes and thank him sarcastically for the contribution, but you're secretly pleased that he's cool with you and Quill and Gamora. You didn't think he _wouldn't_ be but you weren't _sure_ and that had lead to a sleepless night or two.

Drax just confused you until you eventually worked out that he frankly didn't care what the hell the three of you got up to as long as no one got hurt. Quill had called him the team's “honorary uncle” and gotten punched in the shoulder for it hard enough to bruise for days. You're _pretty_ sure it was meant to be friendly, though, and Drax had just forgotten how frail the humie could be when taken by surprise.

Your head still bothers you, and you've grudgingly come to accept that it always will; it's tempered by how no one else on the _Milano_ thinks less of you for it, and how two of them actually are _okay_ enough with it to... to... to stay with you.

Your name is Rocket, and things probably aren't going to be all right. But they'll be “good enough”.

 

*****

 

Your name is Gamora, and you are never the last person to wake up – in fact, you are always the first, the unfortunate legacy of living under Thanos' thumb for more years than you care to think about.

If you didn't wake up first, you wouldn't wake up at all.

As always, you quickly scan the room for threats; the two largest ones are, as always, lying asleep next to you. It's only a slight exaggeration – Peter Quill has an alarming knack for getting everyone around him into trouble, and an equally peculiar one for somehow being able to get people out of it again, if only because the group he somehow assembled around himself has the necessary skills.

The other one is...

You pause. Rocket is not someone you can easily put words around, or at least complimentary ones. He's rude, crass, his inventions both dangerous and as potentially unstable as he is, and has an attitude the size of the _Dark Aster_. Despite these flaws, or perhaps because of them, his devotion to Peter, and (you are still a little surprised by this) you is just as towering. He doesn't speak of it often, and even then he has to be in the worst of his downswings, but both Peter and you have noticed that when he needs someone to cling to, Rocket will alternate between the two of you thoughtlessly and equally.

Both of them are snoring loudly, something they blame on the other whenever it's mentioned.

It's a quiet day, and you have nowhere you need to be, so you choose in a rare moment of indulgence to fall asleep again next to two people you care deeply for, (you never say love, you never _think_ love, for you remember what happened when you told your “adoptive father” you loved someone or something. All the same, it is love, no matter what label you put on it, and you try to squash _that_ thought too) even if they are two of the five biggest idiots in the galaxy.

You count yourself, of course. You fell for two of the others.

 

You wake up some hours later to find Rocket and Peter gone, though their singing tells you exactly where they are.

It's singing only if you're being generous – the two are just as likely to stop mid-lyric and start bickering with each other over who's carrying who, and who has the better singing voice.

On at least seven occasions so far, said squabbling has ended with the “loser” giving the “victor” a thorough scrub. Three of those ended up with a suspicious silence while the shower emptied the ship's hot water. Once, Rocket looked embarrassed and Peter looked smug. Twice, Peter looked flustered while Rocket walked out leering and licking his chops, and the human had gotten even more mortified when you failed to hide your laughter.

You stare at the ceiling of the room and think about things. You think about Drax, and his mission of revenge that has consumed his life. You think about Groot, and how dogged he is to follow his one friend throughout the universe. You think of Rocket, the only one of his kind, who didn't ask to be made and hates himself almost as much as he hates the ones who did it to him. You think of Peter, lost and alone, the Ravagers the closest he had to family. You think of yourself, abducted after the deaths of your family – your _first_ family, you think, smiling as you relax among your second one – and raised by the Mad Titan.

You are all broken people, and you are all the more amazing for it.

Peter breaks your reverie as he leans out of the shower, water dripping onto the floor. “Hey, beautiful. Rocket saw something in one of his _ahem_ vids he wants to try with us... if you're willing.”

“She's flexible, it ought to work just fine!” your other partner shouts from inside the shower. You roll your eyes and sigh good-naturedly, and leave the warm bed with only a touch of regret.

“Well, we cannot disappoint him, can we? You know how he likes big bangs.” Your lips curl into a smile all on their own when you hear Rocket's crude laughter. “I think you've been teaching him some of your sorcery,” you add, brushing past Peter Quill.

He chuckles as he shuts the door to the shower behind him.

On the whole, you decide, things could be much worse. As two sets of arms wrap around your middle, you come to the conclusion that while it could be _better_ , what you have now will more than do.

 


End file.
